


Sick

by swimmingfox



Series: Potential [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Barn wedding, Bristol, Cake, F/M, It's happening, Kilts, M/M, Matrimony, Maybe - Freeform, Missandedd, Modern AU, Peacocks, Podrya, Sheep, Slang, UK - Freeform, Vomit, Wedding, Yaaaay, Yum, crackship, sansan, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:45:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/pseuds/swimmingfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wedding! WHO CAN IT BE? Well, it's probably pretty obvious by now. </p><p>Sansa and Sandor get married, plus other relationship shenanigans, mostly rather crackship. Plus a NEW POV. Modern UK setting. Fun and UK SLANG ensues.</p><p>Continuation of the 'Potential' series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snatched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassyEggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/gifts), [The_Immaculate_Bastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Immaculate_Bastard/gifts).



> Two weeks after their weekend in Brighton...
> 
> For SassyEggs and The_Immaculate_Bastard, just because I hope they like it :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For SassyEggs and The_Immacualate_Bastard, just because I hope they like it :)

**Sansa**

Everything was wonderful. Perfect. Sansa had spent weeks and months resisting turning into a bridezilla. She had made Sandor sit down and choose every single thing with her, and had deliberately worked very hard not to make it into a massive, Hello!-style extravaganza with wedding favours and darling pageboys and napkins that matched the men’s ties. 

They were getting married at a barn on a farm converted specially for weddings, not far from Bristol. Missy, Meera, Yygritte and even, miraculously, Jeyne, arrived early to be on décor duties and were festooning the whole place with ribbons and bunting (tartan, for Sandor). There were a few peacocks walking around, occasionally making alarming squawking noises.

‘Yeah, sis, it has got to be said. You are looking pretty shit-hot.’ Arya was looking at her phone whilst lying on the bed that Sansa and Sandor would be sleeping upon in about ten hours’ time. As husband and wife. Sansa’s stomach curdled a little. 

‘You are looking dope,’ said Robin.

Arya sniggered. She wasn’t dressed yet, even though she had promised she would be, even though Sansa had let her choose whatever she wanted to wear and Arya had gone for a crazy dress decorated in Mexican wrestlers.

‘You shouldn’t be in here, Robin,’ said Sansa. ‘You are a boy.’ 

‘I’m your cuz. Your favourite cuz!’ Robin’s new attempts at language were rather unnerving. But he had brought them fresh mint tea. In a flask. He was still Robin, just about.

Sansa put her hand to her stomach again. She was trying to feel calm and poised. Willowy and mature. She was about be a wife. In two and a half hours’ time. 

It hadn’t helped, going to the conference where she was interning last week, and bumping into Petyr Baelish. It had all been very civilised, even though he’d had a very tall, beautiful mixed-race girl with cheekbones you could store books on - clearly his latest postgrad conquest - holding on to his arm. He’d kissed Sansa on the cheek and held her elbow and, when she told him that she was getting married next week, simply raised an eyebrow and said ‘but you’ve your whole life ahead of you. I trust you moved on from the uncouth Scot.’ When she informed him that actually, that was exactly who she was marrying, there was a look in his eye that managed to convey pity, admonishment, glee and superior disappointment in one tiny, polished glint. She’d spent the rest of the night downing the free wine. 

Sansa smoothed down her dress (vintage lace, short flowing sleeves, a rather dreamy, between-the-wars sort of vibe). Her whole life. But that was the point, wasn’t it? She shivered, unnecessarily, because the heating was on very high in their room and this dress had a lining. Her throat felt stingy.

Arya rolled over. ‘Still nothing from JojoBran. Sucks.’ 

Jojen and Bran’s plane back from Berlin had been delayed after high winds. Quite why they had decided to only come back that morning she did not know, but now one of her brothers was going to miss her wedding. 

It was fine. She would see Bran eventually. Once she was a married woman. Oh god.

Sansa suddenly retched, put her hand on her chest, and threw up.

***

**Sandor**

_You marrying me?_

Sandor was staring into the mirror. 

_You getting married to me?_

Face on, not to the side, as he’d mostly done for the last thirty years of his life. Feeling a bit like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. _I don’t see anyone getting married_. Sansa probably wouldn’t approve of a Mohican. Christ, maybe even she would run from him then. He knew she wouldn’t run. 

‘Um?’ Robin was at the door. ‘Sandor?’

‘What the fuck do you want?’ said Sandor, shaking off his serial killer cabbie vibes, and trying to work out who the hell Robin had come as. The little – not quite so little, now – weirdo was wearing a silver military jacket and big boots. 

‘Um.’ Robin was staring with some awe at Sandor’s thighs, which were somewhat on display seeing as he had only yet put his shirt on. ‘There’s a little emergency.’

‘What?’

‘It’s –’ Robin pulled a weirdly mobile face. ‘She said she didn’t want you to know.’

‘Know what? Out with it.’ 

Robin did some sort of graphic mime that made absolutely no sense. 

‘The fuck you on about? Where is she?’

‘This way, bro,’ Robin said, and led him out of the room, before turning back and Sandor walking into him. ‘Ow. Um, I don’t know if you might want to put trousers on.’

***

**Sansa**

‘You can’t come in! It’s bad luck!’ Sansa pushed Sandor, or attempted to. It was rather difficult trying to move him anywhere that he didn’t intend to go. Tectonic plates were more malleable. 

Sandor looked at Sansa, who was standing in the underwear that she had been shopping for with Meera, the pearl-coloured 1940s style silk, the underwear that he utterly wasn’t supposed to see until tonight. And over at the bed, where her wedding dress was thrown, with the long streak of vomit down the front. It wasn’t far off the ivory, to be honest. Except more chunky, because Sansa had eaten smoked salmon for breakfast. His expression didn’t change.

‘You can’t look at me in my underwear,’ said Sansa, a little more weakly. Her insides felt horrible. 

‘I’ve looked at you in a lot less,’ he said.

‘I am leaving the room now,’ said Arya, very loudly.

He was here. Her practically-husband. Her husband. She put her hand over her mouth.

Sandor was watching her, frowning. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

He’d looked right at it. How could he not care? ‘I just threw up on my wedding dress,’ she said in an outraged stage-whisper. 

He didn’t blink. ‘It’s fine.’

‘It is not fine. It is very definitely not fine,’ she said, choking a sob, and possibly a bit of recently-eaten smoked salmon.

‘You know perfectly well that I would marry you if you were wearing a fucking tea towel.’ His eyes went a bit distant. ‘I’d definitely marry you if you were only wearing a tea towel.’

Sansa felt irrationally panicked. The morning had caused her to go into a meltdown. ‘What do you mean definitely? You’re definitely marrying me anyway. Please definitely marry me.’ Her eyes started filling up. 

‘Aye. It looks like it.’ His gaze softened. ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear. Or what I wear. Or whether the table places have been swapped round by Rickon, which they probably have. None of this shit matters, you daft woman.’

‘I’m scared,’ she said, the words out before she could stop them.

Sandor stilled. Not in the way that he often did, like a big guard dog, but something calmer and more watchful and possibly rather resigned. He put a hand on her elbow. ‘What are you scared of? Spending the rest of your life with a big lug like me?’

Sansa stared at him. She was only twenty-three. She did have her whole life ahead of her. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, in a tiny voice.

‘What, then?’

She was practically whispering now. ‘Just the wedding bit. And the married bit.’

‘We don’t have to do any of this.’ She looked at him. ‘We don’t. We can just carry on, as we were. It’s just a fucking ring and a piece of paper. It doesn’t mean anything.’

Her mind was whizzing round on an out-of-control fairground ride. ‘Don’t you want to? Do this?’

Sandor sighed. ‘Stop it. I want what you want.’

Sansa swallowed, and this time no bile came up. ‘I want to marry you.’

‘Fine.’ He leant down and kissed her right on her sicky mouth. ‘So do I.’

***

**Arya**

Arya stood outside the door, listening to Sansa’s voice wind its way down until it met Sandor’s low one. Her sister had hurled all over her dress, which had cost their dad a grand, which was pretty bloody hilarious. 

Catelyn walked past, whispering into her mobile rather jaggedly. She darted Arya a look and shook her head.

‘Mum. What?’

Her mum sighed. ‘Oh, just the cake. I was just checking with the bakery as it should have been here by now. They didn’t have the order. Sansa put it in weeks ago, I remember it perfectly well. I was sitting right next to her at the time.’

‘Cakeless. Shitbirds,’ said Arya.

‘Is she in there?’ Catelyn took a couple of steps towards the door. ‘And why aren’t you dressed yet?’

Arya went into full-on Bristol club bouncer-mode, lifting her shoulders. ‘Fuck, do not go in there right now.’

‘Thank you, Arya, for the vehemence. I need to let her know.’

‘Yeah, you definitely do not,’ said Arya, before biting her lip and frowning into the middle distance. ‘Leave it with me.’

‘Are you sure?’ Catelyn gave Arya a rather shrewd look, the sort that could probably strip paint. ‘I heard about that stripper.’

Arya tried to chew away her grin. She’d heard a rumour that Oberyn Martell had whisked the big Scandinavian pretend-waiter dude on holiday to the Basque country, evidenced by one discreet Instagram shot of two pairs of hirsute legs, one slim and dark, one rather more robust and ginger.

‘No stripper. I promise.’ She wandered down the hallway, dug her phone out of her dumb little bag and swiped to the number she hadn’t used in rather a while. Stared into the garden. ‘Hey,’ she said, hoping she wouldn’t also throw up and make the whole day into a massive Stark vom-fest. ‘It’s me.’

***

**Edd**

Edd was not terribly comfortable in crowds. Amongst several hundred ranks of young men and some women standing very straight, then yes – well, in truth, he was still getting used to that, too – but rather less so amongst milling wedding guests on a not-very-working farm.

It was very unlike his own family home near Preston. A landscape as dour as his mother and as watery as his father, mucking out the pigs in darkness, gathering the sheep in darkness at the other end of the day.

‘Hey, stranger.’ 

He turned around to find Missy looking up at him, and tried to get the blood that had suddenly seized up to flow through his veins again. 

It had been rather hard for the last fortnight, up at the Albermarle barracks, to forget Sandor’s stag weekend. It had been bloody chaotic, far too many students in there making him feel as old as the hills, he’d had to _sing_ , and at the centre of it had been this young, ridiculously attractive girl who kept staring at him as if he’d just beamed down from the moon.

And now here she was. Wearing a long red dress with a black patterned band round the middle, her hair like very liberal drizzles of HP sauce. 

He had absolutely no idea why she seemed to find him so fascinating. She was just a girl, young and ditzy. Or so he had thought. When she’d said that she was studying languages, he’d made a prat of himself by assuming she’d want to do some fancy embassy job or work in advertising. Instead, she’d told him very matter-of-factly of her ambition to work for NATO, right in the thick of things in the Middle East. He wasn’t entirely clear how many languages she spoke, but she was a sharp tack alright. They’d walked a long way towards Shoreham-by-Sea along the front at a time when he was very much used to being dead to the world, the light odd and thickly blue, and she’d wanted to know all about his job. He’d ended up talking rather a lot. And she’d practically fallen asleep on a bench in front of his hotel, so he’d taken her up to his room, seeing as the hotel was right behind them. Or that was his excuse. 

‘Hello again,’ he said, probably a bit too formally for someone who had sat hooked awkwardly in a chair for five hours trying to doze but mostly watching her sleep.

She gave him a tiny crème caramel smile. He’d never even tasted crème caramel. He didn’t really know what it was. Was it like panacotta? 

‘You look -’ like a goddess, he thought. Like a painting of a Haitian goddess eating crème caramel. ‘You look very nice,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she said before looking around. ‘I haven’t been to a wedding since I was eight.’

Which was about six years ago, he thought, with unnecessarily gloomy exaggeration.

‘You look fine,’ she said, which didn't surprise him. He would never look more than middle of the road, average, median, meridian, fine. Though she did look him up and down quite slowly.

‘Shall we get a drink?’ she said, the words floating. Everything she did floated.

‘After you,’ said Edd, following her, never needing a drink so much as at this moment.

***

**Sansa**

It was the worst day of her life. The absolute worst. She was going to be the worst UN emissary ever. And probably the worst wife.

Sandor had talked to her some more, calmly, as though she was a suicide case on a roof, or a hostage-taker with a room full of people. And then he’d gone again, and Arya had come back looking mysterious and freaked-out and wiggling her eyebrows.

Now Sansa carefully walked down the stairs, where her parents were waiting for her. Cat was giving Sansa her best _I am your mother and I love you_ smile. Her stomach still felt disgusting. 

Ned was frowning a little. ‘Where’s the dress? I thought you were –’ Cat nudged him, rather viciously. ‘You look lovely,’ he said, still looking confused. ‘Beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sansa, rather faintly. She had been fed ginger beer by Arya and had two very economical draws on her sister's secret joint. Meera had taken one look at her ruined dress, jumped in a cab, raced in and out of five shops and bought three dresses on a credit card. None of them were white, of course. She was going to be getting married in a long floral dress, and it was perfectly nice, and it wasn’t her wedding dress, and the shoes didn’t match, and she was a failure.

‘Sorry about Bran,’ said her dad. ‘I told them to come back a day earlier, daft beggars.’

‘Never mind,’ said Sansa, minding very much. She wanted Jojen here almost as much as her brother, because they very much came as a pair these days.

‘I’m very proud of you,’ said her mum, close to her ear, giving her elbow a squeeze before walking to take her seat at the front. 

There were sixty people in the barn, a few beginning to turn around and nudge each other. Sixty people here for her wedding. Her _wedding_. She swallowed. She was a fabulous person in a floral dress and no one needed to know she had intended to wear anything different. She was unconventional, like Arya, who was currently waiting for her at the back, passing her a bunch of simple lavender tied with a ribbon, which was going to offset the antique ivory perfectly, and now clashed with the reds and pinks of her dress. 

‘It’s all good, sis. You look snatched.’

‘I have no idea what that means,’ Sansa said, slightly wanting to cry.

‘Epic. Fit as. Hot.’

‘Ok.'

Arya kissed her and poked her in the spine. ‘Go get got.’

‘Are you ready?’ said Ned, in a quiet murmur.

No. Not quite. Almost. ‘Yes,’ she said, and looked down the aisle. ‘Oh my god,’ she said, and felt rather faint all over again.

At the other end, standing up now with Bronn at his side, was Sandor. And both of them were wearing kilts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	2. Nails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB I see Brienne as having rather a dash of Gwendoline Christie herself here.

**Sandor**

‘Hey up,’ said Bronn, quietly, and nudged him.

Sandor stood, turning round. 

She was standing at the other end in a long dress, hanging onto her dad’s arm. She looked like a bloody wildflower meadow. She looked amazing, because she could never look anything less, and she was about to be his. Really be his. Fucking hell.

Something had happened when Sandor went into Sansa’s room and saw her face, streaked with make-up, a bit of dried vomit on her lip. And heard her fear. He understood it completely, because he’d always felt it, practically from day one. Yet seeing it from her, always the tall unshakeable one, did to him something that he hadn’t expected. It was like a shot of iron. A slap in the face. He suddenly felt surer than he ever had that this was exactly what he wanted. He’d never been surer of anything. It was his fucking wedding day and he was going to fucking get married if it was the last fucking thing he did.

The organ started up. Robin’s keyboard, that was, in a new arrangement he’d done especially of Roberta Flack’s ‘The First Time Ever I saw Your Face,’ which he played in noodly fashion with his eyes closed. Sansa walked slowly down the aisle on Ned’s arm, looking, frankly, a bit miserable still as guests smiled and took photos on their phones. Thoros had a massive vintage camera and was walking backwards down the aisle, clicking away in front of them.

‘Hello, firecracker,’ Sandor said quietly as she reached them. Ned kissed her cheek, gave Sandor a solid look, and went to join Cat.

‘You’re wearing a kilt.’ She was looking like she might keel over at any moment. 

‘Aye, well,’ he said, even more quietly. ‘Thought I’d surprise you.’ He was fairly sure that she remembered as well as he did her making some joke about kilts on their very first meeting. He’d got it done in the Clegane tartan, honey-yellow and black. Tried to think of his ancient family history, not the more recent one. 

‘Look at your legs,’ she whispered. 

‘You’ve seen them before.’

‘Not like that.’ She stared at his knees.

‘You look bleeding gorgeous, love,’ said Bronn. 

‘Thank you.’ Sansa stared at his knees, too. His best man had been more happy to get kitted out. No bloody surprise there.

There was a polite cough from the registrar, a dumpy women in her fifties with an overly soft, spongey smile. Sansa bit her lip and her eyes went wide as she turned to her.

Sandor took her hand and Sansa gripped it very tightly as the registrar started welcoming everyone. He swore he could smell the faintest trace of weed on Sansa’s breath. And ginger beer.

She made a sound like a hiccup and sniffled.

‘Are you going to cry on me?’ he said, leaning down. 

‘No,’ said Sansa, her jaw doing a tiny tremble. 

***

**Arya**

I’m not crying, Arya told herself. I’m not crying. This is a wedding and it’s all cool, and I am nails, and I’m not crying. 

They’d got most of the way through all the stuff they had to say, and Sandor had spoken in a low and level voice. Everybody had to lean forward to hear Sansa, because instead of her usual clear voice, she was repeating everything in a size-zero-thin whisper. 

When he put the ring on her finger, she burst into tears, and Sandor was putting his arms round her and kissing the crown of her head, and slowly around them, people were starting to lose it. Meera had her head on Jon’s shoulder, only curls visible. Theon was blubbing like a milk-less baby. Oberyn, who amazingly had brought that dude Tormund along as his guest, was holding a perfectly-folded handkerchief to the corner of one eye, and not looking the least bit ashamed.

‘Come on, you big girl,’ said Ygritte, in a slightly too-loud voice. ‘Marry the fucker.’

I’m not crying, Arya told herself again, wiping away the snot running from her nostril.

***

**Edd**

Edd wasn’t so much of a crier. He’d seen a bit too much for something like this to open the floodgates. But it was lovely, the opposite of the couple of army weddings he’d been to, all saluting and straight-backed and Status bloody Quo playing off someone’s phone. This one had Sansa’s slightly strange young cousin, Robin, who seemed to be some sort of musical prodigy, playing what sounded like a tribute to Ray Manzarek from The Doors. He’d started singing ‘The End', until Arya had pulled the plug out of his keyboard. 

Missy had sat next to him with her hand on her heart, murmuring _oh my gosh_ several times over at Sansa's waterworks. He had sworn that she’d got a bit closer to him during the ceremony, and his soldier’s highly-focused brain had been trained on the minute sensation of her arm against his jacket sleeve.

Now everyone was back out in the cold late April sunshine. Edd was leaning his elbows on the gate, looking at the twenty very pristine sheep this farm had. He betted that they had some East European kids cleaning them out and doing all the legwork for less than minimum wage well away from all this fanciness.

‘Alright there, mucker. Don’t get any ideas,’ said Bronn, Sandor’s best man, behind him. ‘Plenty of girls here for you to choose from.’

‘Don’t be so crass, Bronn,’ said a woman in a deep voice.

‘He knows I’m just ribbing him,’ said Bronn as Edd turned round to see an incredibly tall blonde woman, who looked even bigger what with being pretty bloody pregnant. ‘This is my wife. Edd, Brienne. And our unborn child, kicking to buggery.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she said, in a warmer tone, giving Edd the sort of handshake that could probably turn all his knuckles to powder with a tiny bit more pressure. ‘And you’re a Lieutenant Colonel, I hear?’

Everyone apart from him seemed bloody excited about his status. Everyone except him. He wasn’t even in uniform – he hated all that crap, saluting civvies, Help for Heroes, people telling him they really appreciated what he did for their country. ‘I am,’ he said.

‘Right, I’m off to stare at the Pimm’s again,’ said Bronn, before winking at Edd. ‘This not drinking for nine months thing is a bit of a challenge.’

Brienne put a hand on Edd’s arm. ‘We’re all very grateful.’

Well, there it was. He nodded before turning back to the sheep. At least they weren't grateful.

***

**Sansa**

It was ok. Everything was ok. People were drinking Pimm’s with strawberries and cucumber and chatting and it was such a strange and lovely mixture of people, the sort of people who would otherwise never be under the same roof, or in this case, worryingly cloudy sky.

Rickon had already wrenched his tie loose and had tied it round his arm. Lyanna – his best friend since sitting together in the back of their Year 6 class, she punching him in the arm until he stabbed her with a very sharp pencil – was stalking one of the peacocks very quietly. Ygritte was whispering something in Robb’s ear and then laughed very loudly whilst whistling at Theon, who seemed to be attempting to ignore both of them by talking to Jeyne, who was clad in a dress with kittens on it, and was sucking on the strawberry from her fourth glass of Pimm’s.

Arya’s old English teacher, the unbelievably graceful and massively pregnant Brienne, was laughing very loudly, her head thrown back at something Bronn had just said. Oberyn, who was easily wearing the most exquisitely-cut suit here as well as a pair of probably highly expensive designer sunglasses, had his hand lightly between Tormund’s massive, tweed-besuited shoulders. They had not counted for the survival expert/stripper in the dinner, but Oberyn had said lots of very smooth words to the wedding staff and somehow it all seemed to be alright. The pair of them seemed extremely enamoured with her uncle Edmure’s two-month old son, Tormund leaning down and touching him lightly on the nose, whilst her tiny cousin threw a big fist out and grabbed his beard. 

Sandor was standing talking to her uncle Benjen, who was nodding down at Sandor’s kilt with a rather wry look on his face. Her husband Sandor. Who was her husband. The weed had made her woozy. He was casting occasional glances at her as if she was an extremely old lady who might need a wheelchair whisked under her at any moment. Which wasn’t far off the mark.

‘Kilts, man,’ said Ygritte, suddenly there at her side with two glasses of Pimm’s. ‘They make me feel as horny as fuck. Every man should wear one. Your older brother included. Get that down your gullet.’ She thrust one of the glasses alarmingly close to Sansa’s nose.

Sansa shook her head. She had drunk one glass of sparkling water very slowly and even that made her stomach churn a little more. Nothing quite seemed real. ‘Can’t.’

‘Course you can, you big div.’ Ygritte shoved it further under Sansa’s nose.

Sansa took a step backwards and wobbled as her pale silk heel sank into a flowerbed. ‘Oh,’ she said, looking down. Well, they didn’t really work with the dress anyway. She took it off and threw it a little away from her. Kicked off the other one. 

Ygritte was eyeing her. ‘Bloody hell, it’s hit you hard, this getting hitched lark, hasn’t it?’

A squawk as Rickon lassooed a peacock with his tie and Lyanna jumped on it. 

‘A small little bit,’ said Sansa, vaguely. ‘A tiny small bit.’ She put her hand out and touched Ygritte’s face. She had so many freckles. 

‘Bleeding Nora,’ said Ygritte. ‘You been on the wacky baccy?’

‘Maybe,’ said Sansa. 

She looked over at Sandor again. The dress thing had been a disaster. One of her shoes was now covered in Avon’s claggy soil. But maybe everything else would be fine. 

A thunderclap overhead, and it began to rain. 

***

**Sandor**

‘Nice skirt,’ said Arya.

‘Shut it,’ said Sandor, with a mouthful of walnut bread, reaching for the butter. 

‘Didn’t know you liked wearing skirts.’

‘It’s a fucking kilt.’

‘Same difference.’

Sandor glanced over at Cat. She was currently subtly pointing out to her husband a table in the far corner, where Ned’s brother Benjen was talking to – or maybe just being talked _at_ by – Sandor’s own friend Osha, who was sporting a headful of ratty dreadlocks and pushing him in the shoulder. And then stroking him on the shoulder. 

He decided that now would not be the best time to swear copiously at their younger daughter. After the monumental deluge outside, during which people had run screaming under awnings and crammed into the entrance to the sheep barn, he had taken Sansa’s elbow, steered her into the barn, and decided that the only thing for it was to give her a bit of his hip flask brandy, which Bronn had provided first thing this morning. For his nerves, not hers. 

Now they sat at the top table, actually in the middle of the room, and he had the whole bloody lot of Starks around him, apart from Bran, who had still not bloody arrived. A few people – Ygritte leading the charge, no surprise there – had stayed outside to get drenched, and were now steaming up the barn, which had been transformed from wedding ceremony venue to dining hall, with a buffet up at the far end. It was mostly out of Ned’s pocket, all this, which made him cringe. He’d put in a lot of savings, but nevertheless – he didn’t like owing. 

‘Fucking beautiful, man,’ said Thoros, having appeared behind him, a hand on Sandor’s shoulder. ‘Nothing better than this, my friend.’

‘Aye, man,’ Sandor said.

Thoros was alright, he supposed, for a old hippie bastard, even if the man did teach yoga, organise near-weekly protest meets and smoke his own homemade herbal fags. Lysa, after all, made him seem like a fucking accountant. 

‘Family, man. Just keeps growing. We’re all trees. Just trees.’ Thoros did another baggy nod and waved his hand vaguely at the wooden beams above them. 

Well, maybe not an accountant, Sandor thought, as Thoros weaved away.

‘He was going to do a penis trick for me once,’ said Sansa quietly enough for only him to hear.

Sandor looked at her. She’d been barefoot since coming inside and didn’t seem to be eating. And was now babbling. ‘Well, he’s not bloody going to under my watch,’ he said.

‘I’m your sister now,’ Arya said on the other side of him, with her head wedged on a fist.

‘Sister-in-law.’ Sandor thought back to his own sister, the little purple sparkly shoes she used to wear, how he’d helped her with her spelling in the mornings over breakfast, spruced up her bike for her. Before her accident.

‘Same difference.’

‘Not really.’

Arya sighed and seemed about to launch into something when her phone, which Cat had told her three times to take off the table, buzzed. She jerked as if somebody had prodded her and sat up straight as she looked at her message. ‘Whatever, bro.’ She flashed him a look as she slid off her chair. ‘Bro-in- _law_.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘Nowhere,’ she said, doing the opposite. 

***

**Arya**

Arya stood at the gate next to the slightly tilted WEDDING sign. There was hardly any reception out here. She took another couple of pictures of herself in her dress next to the holly tree, pulling a face, as a car came round the corner.

The taxi pulled up and Pod got out.

‘Hey,’ she said, her heart beating ten times louder than two seconds ago. 

He gave her a genuine, if small, beam, before passing her a Waitrose bag. ‘Hey. Keep it upright. I haven’t finished putting it altogether.’

‘You’re a life-saver.’

Pod flicked her a quick look as he got out properly, paying the driver. ‘It’s cool. My pleasure.’

He’d never been invited to the wedding because Sansa knew that, even though she was still in contact with him, it would be too much for Arya. He wasn’t quite in wedding gear now, just a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his trainers. There was a trace of flour on his forehead.

‘I hope you weren’t too busy,’ she said, leading him down the driveway, both of them carrying big Tupperware boxes.

He shook his head. ‘I was watching snooker with my uncle. But my uncle was mostly snogging his girlfriend. Good to have an excuse, really.’ He grinned. 

She gave him a scrunched-up smile and mentally punched herself in the guts over and over. How the holy fuck had she ever cheated on him? She was an insane person. She deserved to be in a straitjacket in an insane asylum having electroshock treatment for extreme insanity.

Arya took him into the kitchen, where waiters were stacking dinner plates and looking bored. She’d managed to get them to clear a space for him, and the cake tray was laid out.

‘It’s not going to be a work of art or anything,’ he said, pulling the boxes out of the carrier bags. 

‘It’ll be amazing,’ she said. Because you are amazing. 

He looked at all the Tupperware. Glanced over. She was fairly sure that he was checking out her dress again. ‘Want to help?’

‘Yes, chef,’ she said. 

***

**Edd**

Edd had been stuck next to Sansa’s great-uncle for the meal, a grizzled old man who kept talking about his fishing trips around the world and, once he found out about the army, kept droning on about the Falklands and ‘our Maggie.’

Brynden finally got up, grumbingly, to fetch himself another beer and Edd breathed a sigh of relief not to have to talk to anyone for a moment. He had been extremely aware of the distant presence of Missy the entire time, seated over in the corner next to Meera and Jon, the curly-haired couple he kept thinking were siblings, and glanced over now to find her gazing at him. He immediately looked down at the tablecloth. Back up. She was pointing at herself and at the chair next to him, her eyebrows raised. Christ. He nodded.

She floated over, not letting Sansa’s older brother Robb, who caught her hand and twirled her around, stop her for long. ‘How was your food, Edd?’ she said, her hands on the back of the chair next to him.

‘Very nice.’ He was incapable of saying anything remotely creative to her. It was mortifying.

A waiter was coming over with pannacottas and crème caramels. ‘Ooo,’ she said, sitting down. ‘They look so fine.’ Fine. She’d said that before. Maybe he hadn’t looked as average as he’d thought. 

As they ate their desserts – one of each, with Missy nicking a bit of his and Edd wondering if his heart could take the sight of her sliding small, glistening cream things onto her tongue for too much longer – Missy asked him about the army, again. But at least she wasn’t saying anything about being grateful or looking annoyingly sympathetic. Instead she was asking about his postings, and how they worked with local translators, and their relationship with NATO. It wasn’t really wedding-friendly material, but he didn’t sugar-coat it either. 

‘It’s heavy, isn’t it? Your job.’ She looked at him. ‘Understatement.’

‘It’s not a barrel of laughs. To be honest though, most of it’s paperwork at the moment.’

She turned her spoon upside down and licked it clean. ‘So your barracks are in Scotland?’

‘Not quite so far up. Northumberland. Just next to Hadrian’s Wall.’ 

‘Safe,’ she said, and she said that rather a lot – he’d got rather confused back in Brighton, wondering if it was some sort of code word for one of her girlfriends to come and rescue her. But then a lot of the things she said slightly confused him. She used words like _messy_ and _bad_ and _liberty_ and _bare_ and none of them meant what he thought they meant. ‘Is that near where you’re from?’

‘I’m on the other side. Lancashire.’ Ygritte, the mad redhead, had challenged him to a fistfight in Brighton, even after he’d pointed out that the Wars of the Roses had taken place quite a while ago and he hadn’t had much to do with it.

‘I’ve never been that far north.’

He tried and failed to imagine her with wellies and a wax jacket on. ‘You’re not missing much,’ he said. ‘Unless you like rain and sheep.’

A grin, and she put a forefinger on the plate and wiped off the last slick of berry jus. ‘Do you like it? Home?’ 

Edd shrugged, lightly. ‘My parents are getting on a bit. They should sell up really – they own a farm – but I know they never will. I keep expecting to go back one day and find a pig in charge.’

The side of her mouth curled up. ‘Jokes,’ she said. Confusingly.

‘How many languages do you speak, then?’

‘Twelve,’ she said, with a look that was almost guilty. ‘But I’m working on more.’ 

‘Bloody hell. I can hardly master the one.’

She smiled again. ‘You must speak some Pashto, though. Or Dari?’

‘Just a few words. Not much.’ 

There was a muffled, boomy tapping sound, and she turned round to look at Bronn standing up, before turning back to Edd, her eyes bright. ‘Ooo,’ she said. ‘Speeches time.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://imgur.com/0SQxBcX)   
> 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> HELPFUL BRITISH NOTES AND TING:  
>   
> 
> Nails = hard as nails = tough, etc  
> Div = idiot  
> Civvies = not sure if this is just a Brit thing or not, but a civvie can mean a person who is not in the Army as well as civvies meaning civilian clothes  
> Pashto and Dari are the two official languages of Afghanistan
> 
> Maggie = Margaret Thatcher, Prime Minister during the Falklands War
> 
> [The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Go9aks4aujM) by Roberta Flack (or the Johnny Cash version) is a bit of a Dr swimmingfox/Mr swimmingfox classic.
> 
> [The End](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSUIQgEVDM4) is my favourite The Doors’ song. It is not really appropriate for closing a wedding, what with being thirteen minutes long and being best known for featuring in ‘Apocalypse Now.’


	3. Safe

**Sansa**

She couldn’t eat a thing. She watched everyone eat their asparagus tart and their artisan fish pie and let Sandor polish off all of hers. ‘I’m not letting it go to waste if we’re all paying for it,’ he’d said, demolishing another forkful and simultaneously managing with one casually elongated arm to stop Lyanna, who had a peacock feather in her hair, from doing another skid past the table.

Sansa still had no idea what had happened. How she had ended up being the one with jelly for legs and the emotional stability of a malfunctioning rollercoaster. 

And now Bronn was standing up.

‘Take your shirt off!’ Ygritte shouted from the back.

‘Maybe later, love, as long as Tom Jones is singing,’ said Bronn, not missing a beat. Brienne was watching him with a warmly polished grin on her face. He looked utterly at ease, as if he was a regular night-time cabaret entertainer and not the groundsman and caretaker of a school, the microphone cradled lightly in his fingers as he surveyed the barn. 

‘I’ve known this big bastard as long as almost anyone in this room,’ he said, and Sansa looked for Edd, who had known him longer and was giving his friend a small nod and a smaller smile. ‘I’ll tell you now, he’s not an easy person to make friends with. Moody fucker.’ 

Ygritte whooped. Cat was eyeing the table with a cool smile. She wasn’t such a fan of swearing. 

Bronn swapped the microphone to his other hand. ‘Now I know that the tradition is for me, as the best man, to regale you with all the stories about his worst habits, the countless times he made a fool of himself and all the rest of it, but the truth is that he’s a sound lad. More’s the pity for this speech. And he is grumpy as they come, but I’ll tell you something. He’s been a lot less grumpy in the time he’s known Sansa. It’s been a pleasure to see him change through their relationship, and I don’t care how soft that sounds. Sansa’s a feast for the eyes, we all know that, especially today –’

‘Too fucking right!’ shouted Ygritte. Jon gently shoulder-nudged Meera. 

In my totally unweddingy wedding dress which clashes with my hair, thought Sansa.

‘But that’s not the point,’ Bronn said. ‘The point is that she is smart as hell, determined – I hear that she tracked Sandor down with GPS and helicopters and dogs – funny and just has a bloody good heart. He’s the luckiest fucker alive to have her, but she’s damned lucky to have him too.’

A flutter of applause at a far table. 

‘Now, I know this has been lacking in stories about Sandor with his face in a cowpat or his hand up a horse’s arse or waking up in bed with a woman dressed as a clown or what have you.’ 

Ygritte whooped again. ‘Get in!’

‘I’ve done that!’ shouted Theon.

Bronn pointed an admonishing finger at them both before looking around the whole room one more time. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing for free. I’ve seen what’s under that kilt, and it’s not pretty. Terrifying, but not pretty. I’m wishing Sansa all the luck in the world.’

He gave her the quickest, blink-and-you’d-miss-it wink, the sort that would make most girls fall over. Sansa couldn’t help a smile.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Bronn said, raising his glass. ‘The best hung Scotsman in the West Country, or at least in these three fields, Sandor Clegane.’

***

**Sandor**

If there was going to be one moment of nerves, it would be now. Public speaking was his least favourite thing after watching zombie movies and being run over by a tractor. But today was a very different day for Sandor, and he hardly felt himself at all as he stood up and took the microphone from Bronn.

The whole room was looking at him.

‘I’m not much one for speeches, it’s got to be said.’ Spoken a little bit too loudly into the mic, all the consonants fizzling.

‘Take your shirt off!’ shouted Ygritte.

‘Shut it,’ said Sandor.

‘Take your kilt off!’ shouted Theon, and everyone snickered again.

Oberyn murmured something that only his table could hear, causing them all to collapse into giggles.

‘Christ,’ said Sandor. 

Arya was cackling in the corner.

He could do this. ‘Alright.’ He cleared his throat. Shook his head again. ‘I never thought I’d be here.’ Not even two weeks ago, he thought. He looked at Sansa, who had her hands folded in her lap and still seemed to be high on LSD, if he didn’t know any better. ‘A lot of the time, I don’t think I deserve this woman. She’s –’ changed my life, he’d written, and crossed out for being too soupy. ‘She’s made a big difference to me, and I couldn’t much imagine my life without her.’ 

A collective, gentle _aw_ from the entire room, with Theon beginning to weep again. 

‘So, I know this is short and sweet, but thank you all for coming,’ he said, glancing round the room, before facing his wife, and trying to ignore everyone else. ‘And thank you,’ he said, more quietly, leaning down, holding her chin like it was fine china and kissing her on the cheekbone.

Tormund blew his nose, loudly. 

***

**Arya**

This whole thing felt totally surreal. The wedding, the speeches – it was mental, his sister actually getting married in a barn with peacocks like it was fucking Downton. Everyone was clapping Sandor, who had just finished his tiny, growly speech. Arya wasn’t so into champagne, but today was different and she was having her glass topped up when Meera nudged her and pointed to the main table, where Sansa was gesticulating frantically.

‘Arya,’ her sister said, clutching her arm once she got over there. Arya squatted down on her knees, as if she was talking to a mental patient. ‘Pod is here.’ Sansa nodded to the back, where Pod was standing chatting to Jon, his hands clasped. You’d almost mistake him for a waiter.

‘I know. It’s cool.’ It wasn’t cool, really. She’d helped him put the cake together, and their knuckles had met and it was as if she’d been stung by a bee. Yet at the same time knowing he was there at the edge of the room made her feel very calm. Weighted.

Sansa looked very confused. She’d been looking pretty spacey all day. It was quite bizarre seeing her almost always totally on it, girl power-sister having gone to pieces. 

Arya probably shouldn’t have given her the joint. ‘You’ll see,’ she said. Distraction tactics. She nudged Sansa’s elbow. ‘Speech time.’

Sansa shook her head rather violently. 

‘Sis. You have to do your speech. You can’t let all the dudes do all the talking. Not cool. You’re my power sister. You have killer thighs and you’re going to run the fucking UN or whatever. You’re Beyoncé mixed with the Queen. Team Stark and all that shit.’

‘Oh God,’ said Sansa, downed Arya’s champagne and stood up.

Ygritte whistled loudly through her fingers, the whistle of a shepherd whose sheep were ten fields away. Catelyn and Ned simply looked insanely proud. 

‘Thank you very much for coming,’ Sansa said in a wispy voice that only the few people nearest to her could hear, before looking perplexed. Arya passed her the microphone and Sansa looked at it like it was made of cheese.

Fucking hell, she was on a different planet. Arya gave her a thumbs-up and mimed talking into the microphone. Sansa swallowed, repeated it into the mic and everyone smiled and nodded, turning to her. A light patter of applause. ‘It’s awesome,’ Sansa said. More beaming and a sense of expectation.

Sansa sat down again.

There was a moment where everyone seemed puzzled. Sandor put his hand on top of hers.

Arya started the clapping, very loudly. 

Ygritte whistled again. ‘Boss arse fucking bitch!’ she shouted, and high-fived Lyanna.

***

**Sansa**

‘You and me are wanted,’ Sandor said, his breath suddenly warm on her ear. He’d disappeared for a bit to talk to people, which was just as well, because she was the worst hostess in the entire world. 

‘Ok,’ she said. 

People were having coffee, some were smoking outside, plates and dishes were being cleared up, and Sansa was still in a complete daze. Wedding. Married. Husband. 

He squatted down, so that his upper legs were the size of Viking longboats, and put his hands on her knees. ‘Hey. I know it’s a big day. You’re doing really well.’

‘I’m doing terribly,’ she said. ‘I am a useless person.’ If she worked for the UN, she would have to deal with crises rather a lot more significant than this.

‘It’s just a lot to take in. It’ll all be calmer tomorrow.’

‘What are we doing now?’ she said.

‘Cutting the cake,’ he said, taking her hand and pulling her up gently. ‘Come and see it. It’s not what you were expecting, but don’t freak out on me.’

Sansa tried to imagine, as he led her across the room to the corner, what on earth could have happened to the cake for him to say that. They had accidentally used blue food dye. Or made it out of ham. 

When they reached the table, Arya was standing there with a very large knife with her thumbs up again. 

‘Oh,’ Sansa said. It was a three-tiered Victoria-style sponge cake, covered with berries, and it looked very beautiful and she really didn’t remember ordering anything like that.

‘Pod made it,’ Arya said.

Sansa looked at her. 

‘We decided the other cake was going to be shit and that Pod would do a better one.’ 

‘Really?’

‘Not really.’ She spun the knife on the point of her finger. ‘They fucked up the order. Or you did. But I bet his will be better anyway.’

Sansa noticed Pod standing towards the back of the small group of people holding their phones in front of the cake, and walked over to hug him. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You are so very nice.’ She wished he was still with Arya. Her sister was so sad without him. 

‘Hey, Sansa,’ he said, hugging her back. ‘I hope you like it.’

‘It’s cracking,’ said Sandor, shaking his hand, before taking the knife from Arya. ‘Give me that before you stab someone.’

‘I wasn’t going to stab anyone,’ she said, putting her tongue out. ‘Not until I’ve tried the cake, anyway.’ And she grinned at Pod.

***

**Edd**

The funny little cousin who had caused trouble by getting lost in Brighton had moved his keyboard to the other end of the barn, which had now been cleared for dancing, Edd’s least favourite activity after singing. Fairy lights were hanging up, one string of them made into a sort of ven diagram with ‘San’ in the middle, and ‘dor’ and ‘sa’ on the outside, which the blonde girl in the dress with cats on – Jane, he recalled – seemed very proud of.

Sandor appeared to have banned Robin from singing the first song though, which was DJ-ed by the guy in the dark red suit with matted-looking long hair and a big, lazy smile and who looked like he took a lot of drugs. Edd didn’t recognise it, but it was a crackly old jazz record and the woman sounded like ripe fruit. _You’re gonna love me come rain or come shine._

It was nice to see Sandor - who’d he’d bunked up with years ago in the hot desert, who’d helped him out of the jeep that time when he might have lost a limb or worse, who’d never talked of women - here, now, married up. Dancing, or sort of shuffling anyway, with this tall, incredibly pretty young woman, even if she didn’t seem on top form today, her head resting on his shoulder, looking a bit knackered to be fair.

Edd never expected all this to happen to him, because he was Edd and it wasn’t really possible, but he was happy for his friend. 

The woman singing finished her final flourish. Sandor and Sansa came to a stop, everyone clapping and a few noisy catcalls from the Yorkshire contingent.

A microphone was tapped. Please god, not more speeches, thought Edd. The main players had all been concise, but Ned Stark had harped on for some time about the ancestral family tree and a lot of money had passed hands as the clock ticked. Mostly towards Robb and Arya, who seemed to have predicted how bloody long he’d go on for. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Robin, and Edd could hear Sandor mutter something that sounded a lot like a prayer, if a prayer could also include an awful lot of cursing.

***

**Arya**

‘Welcome to the wedding of the century,’ said Robin, whose mic technique was at least better than the earlier speeches. He was standing behind his keyboard on a little stage, and he wasn’t alone. 

‘My sick cousin and his friend have formed a new band especially for this awesome occasion.’ He cast a hopeful look at Rickon, who was standing in front of the main microphone, cricking his neck from side to side. ‘I have been composing a new concept suite based on futuristic love between an alien and a musically talented earthling –’ 

Rickon turned round and made some violent gestures that Arya was fairly sure she hadn’t taught him. 

Robin’s shoulders sagged. ‘We are going to perform some well-known punk songs,’ he said, less enthusiastically.

Lyanna, seated next to him at a mini kit, immediately bashed her sticks together over her head four times and started pounding the drums. Rickon, who almost never said anything to anyone, began yowling into the microphone.

‘Fuck, yes!’ shouted Ygritte, immediately careering onto the stage, pulling Arya with her. 

Robin delicately raised his eyes to the heavens, before pressing a button on his keyboard and playing synth guitar chords to make the song more clearly recognisable as Anarchy in The UK. 

Pod was directly opposite her on the other side of the dance floor, leaning on the wall, giving her a quiet grin. He had always understood Robin. He had always understood her. 

She threw her hair forward again, wishing she could headbang herself to death.

***

**Edd**

Things had calmed down again following the riotous end of the kids’ set – a finale of Teenage Kicks, during which Rickon and Lyanna trashed the drum kit and Robin had defended his keyboard as best he could from the mini-punk onslaught. 

‘This family is crackers,’ said the woman next to him, an army mate of Sandor’s from a different corps way back when, who said that her dreadlocks were a reaction to having a shaved head when she was in the forces. She’d asked him three quick brushstroke questions about his time and then, like him, knew well enough not to talk any more about it. ‘Bloody lovely, though.’

‘Aye, they are,’ he said, thinking again of his own family and their near-silences. There’d be no junior punk band at a Tollett wedding.

‘Speaking of which,’ she said, downing her red wine and standing up. ‘Wish me luck, soldier.’ She sauntered into the melée towards Sansa’s uncle, the one who worked not far from Edd on the Borders.

Thoros, or DJ LightLord as he kept introducing himself, was back on, playing a mix of stuff whilst surveying the dancers beatifically, and Edd was sitting as far away as he possibly could from the dancefloor, a beer in his hand. He wasn’t like Oberyn, the Spanish gay chap, not giving two hoots about what he looked like, though as it happened he looked like a bloody ballroom dancer. Or like his partner, who Edd had seen rather more of than he would have liked two weeks ago, who seemed to be doing a much more muted, clothed version of his routine. Like Jon, the curly-headed one, surprisingly good, twirling his girlfriend around. Like – Ben, he thought it was, who didn’t seem completely averse to this lass Osha slinging her arms around his neck.

‘Will you dance with me, Edd?’

He nearly fell off his chair. Missy had materialised from nowhere, which was surprising seeing as he’d essentially been making mental logbook notes of her movements for the entire day. ‘I’m not much of a dancer,’ he said, looking at his beer and up at her. ‘Two left feet.’

There were orchestral strings swooning away. ‘It’s a slow dance. You don’t have to do much.’ She looked awkward, like she’d have to dash away if he didn’t say yes very soon.

Wish me luck, soldier. ‘You asked for it,’ he said.

Edd followed her to the dance floor and as she turned she put one wrist on his shoulder and then the other. Looked up at him with those bloody deep, clever eyes. Well, he might as well try and enjoy this moment and not stand there like a lemon. He put his hands on each side of her waist. Tried to move with her, side to side, very slowly, thank god. Nothing fancy. 

He knew this song, the singer’s big voice soaring, making him feel a bit dizzy. Or maybe Missy was. She shifted a little closer, clasping her hands behind his neck. Her hair, which made him think of his parents’ sheep as much as he didn’t want to think about the farm right now, was against his chin. It smelt of sugary things, melting. Christ almighty. 

Edd tried to imagine that this was his wedding day. That everyone was here for him and this one, that it was up north, the sun out, the air fresh, no midges. Maybe in a couple of years, when there were no more six-month tours to Afghanistan because it had all been cleaned up out there, sorted, local forces trained up, no opium trade, no ISIS. Aye, and every single part of that was a fantasy. 

Concentrate, for god’s sake. Here she was, this smashing girl, with her stomach against his waist, her cheek against his shoulder, a girl in blood-red, all soft, warm colours. Smelling of – what was that smell? Burnt caramel. She was a pudding trolley. 

The violins on the song started swooping down like birds landing and then the music changed abruptly, a bassline, lots of rhythm. 

‘Alright, kids,’ said Thoros in his chilled-out voice. ‘Let’s get this party started properly, shall we?’

Edd stepped back and Missy gave him a slow smile. He felt panicked. He really couldn’t dance to this. ‘Drink?’ he said.

There was the slightest sense of her face falling, though her expression didn’t really change. ‘Ok,’ she said. ‘Safe.’

He didn’t stop to ask what she wanted, turning with almost regimented swiftness and practically marching to the bar, away from the dancers who had all started twisting their hips a little lower to the ground.

Christ. What was wrong with him? She’d asked him to dance. She wouldn’t care if he made a fool of himself. He’d had a few drinks and therefore he could probably do this. Edd ordered a gin and tonic and a rum and coke in the hope that she’d like one of them, before remembering that he’d not seen her drink more than one glass of champagne all day (going back over his mental logbook), and asking for an elderflower cordial as well. 

He downed the rum and coke and turned back, his head and teeth fizzing, to see Missy now dancing with Theon. His arm was round her waist and he had his hips very close to hers. She looked perfectly happy.

Of course she did.

***

**Arya**

‘I never thought Sansa would get married somewhere where you could smell animal shit,’ said Arya, passing the joint to Pod.

They were sitting on one of the hay bale benches and bits of damp straw were poking into her arse. But she wasn’t going to move a muscle, because he was sitting next to her and she could half-pretend they were still going out.

She had watched Sansa and Sandor have their first dance, standing at the side and desperately aware of Pod leaning on the wall opposite her. Robb had pulled her up to dance, and she had ended up in a stupid crush with him and her dad and Rickon as well, though Rickon was mostly trying to pull away in the style of one of the Mexican dudes on her dress.

It was a bit gutting that Bran wasn’t here. She kept texting them both, and occasionally their messages would come through on their group chat, when her phone worked.

 _We r on epic mission_ , Jojen had typed. 

_U shd have come back yestrday u fkin aholes_

_Reasons_ , typed Bran.

_Sansa is mad with u both u dicks_

_She will b happy to see us_ , typed Bran. 

_Jokessss_ , typed Jojen.

‘Still no sign?’ said Pod. It had become weirdly comfortable, almost, the two of them here, Arya with her legs stretched out, sharing one of Thoros’ weird little herbal joints. She wasn’t entirely sure what was in it. Possibly mostly rosemary. 

‘Nope,’ she said. ‘What were you doing over, anyway? I mean, back home?’

Pod shrugged. ‘Just up for the week. Easter and everything.’

‘Has Tyene been over to Bristol?’ she said, high-fiving herself for sounding like a mature human being, and absolutely not imagining an epic battle between Ms Kickboxxx and Wolfgrrrl.

‘No,’ he said, and didn’t say anything else. The air seemed to cool, very suddenly.

‘Well, you have to introduce our badass city to her at some point,’ she said, trying to keep the normal going.

He’d gone quiet. Arya felt a weird weight pressing down on her shoulders. 

‘I don’t think I will be,’ Pod said. He was still holding the joint, letting it crisp at the edges. ‘I’m not going out with her any more.’

His voice was so quiet she almost missed it. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Bummer.’ Her brain became a cave. An empty cave filled only with smoky rosemary. ‘How - come?’

He drew on the roll-up and they both watched the smoke curl in front of them into a question mark before it disappeared. ‘I told her I couldn’t be with her when I was in love with someone else.’

There was a screech from inside. It was either Ygritte or one of the peacocks.

‘Oh,’ she said. 

They sat, watching the stars pinch themselves into the sky, one by one.

***

**Sandor**

Sansa was finally turning back into herself. She’d danced with most of the entire room, from wee Lyanna all the way up to her granddad, old Hoster. Now she had her arms around her mother, and he saw how similar they were, Cat the darker, burnished version, and wondered how much Sansa would look like her when she was older, and he was even older.

Sandor had slipped Pod fifty quid for the taxi and the cake, though he’d tried not to take it. He wasn’t quite sure where those two had got to, or what was happening there. He hoped Arya was alright. 

He sat down next to Edd, who was looking gloomy, as per bloody usual and had two drinks in front of him. ‘Anyone would think it was a bloody funeral,’ Sandor said.

Edd looked up. ‘Sorry, mate. Congratulations.’ He gently clinked Sandor’s glass with the rim of his own. ‘I’m made up for you.’

‘What’s up with you, then?’

‘Nothing.’ Edd glanced impassively over to the dancefloor, where Sansa was trying to get Cat to dance to a song that even Sandor knew was by Rihanna, and Missy was dancing – or being danced _at_ – by Theon, and looking around her quite a lot.

‘I might not be one for all that gossipy shite,’ Sandor said. ‘But even I can see that that lass has got a wee soft spot for you.’

Edd looked faintly ashamed. ‘Can’t think why.’

‘If you think that, you’ll never do anything.’

‘She’s too young. It’ll be bloody cradle-snatching.’

Sandor put his elbows on the table. ‘Thanks for that, pal.’

‘Sorry, mate.’ Edd watched the dancefloor again. ‘Sansa’s older, though.’

‘Aye, and you’re younger than me.’ Sandor took a gulp of his beer. ‘Look, have some fun, for god’s sakes. It doesn’t have to be forever.’ He looked over at his new wife again. Though you never bloody know, he thought.

A tap on his shoulder. Arya was frowning at him and pulling at her lip. Sandor sighed. Here we go. Even at his own wedding she was being a bloody drama queen and had to whinge at him about Pod, _again_. ‘Out with it,’ he said.

‘Um,’ she said, and frowned some more. Looked at him oddly, eyes flicking to the side of his face. ‘There’s a guy who’s just turned up. He says he’s your brother?’

Sandor’s heart turned immediately in on itself. Folded over so many times that it disappeared.

He stood up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PICSET!
> 
> **  
> **  
> CHOONS:  
>  In a Wolfgirl in Braavos crossover, SanSan’s first dance song is [‘Come Rain Or Come Shine’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ev8gIyXCRYo), in the Ella Fitzgerald version, because she makes me completely fall apart. I mean, just LISTEN TO HER.
> 
> Edd and Missy were dancing to [Etta James’ ‘At Last’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-cbOl96RFM), which Thoros followed with [Deee-lite’s ‘Groove is in the Heart.’ Classic.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etviGf1uWlg)
> 
> [The Undertones' 'Teenage Kicks'! ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVrP6JaPUv0)Legendary BBC Radio 1 DJ John Peel's all-time favourite song.


	4. Fine

**Sandor**

Gregor was standing under a lighted porch outside the barn, chatting to Lysa as if he’d been here for hours. He towered above her, twice her width and a foot and a half taller. 

‘Get the fuck away from her,’ Sandor said. 

They both turned to him. He didn’t look at Gregor.

Lysa, who would throw herself at a fallen tree if there was a chance of flirting with it, did one of her crazy, startled frowns. ‘Sandor, that’s no way to greet kin,’ she said, admonishing him as if he was a tiny kid, and in a way he was, a kid facing his brother, waiting for the next blow. Lysa looked back up at Gregor, her neck craned. ‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

I don’t, Sandor thought. ‘Not now, Lysa.’ His stomach had knotted into a tiny ball. He wanted to punch everything in sight. 

The mad herbal witch cottoned on, glancing between them, her face falling. ’Oh. Right. I’ll get you a drink, then,’ she said, her hand on Gregor’s arm. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

‘I won’t, darling,’ he said, looking at Sandor in his kilt, folding his arms. Black amusement on his face.

He hadn’t changed one bit, apart from the goatee he now had. Taller than Sandor, brick shithouse and then some. A thin silver cross around his neck, nearly cutting into the skin. Two fat rings. He’d always worn rings, all the better to smash someone’s head in, as he used to tell his brother, whilst slowly pressing them into his cheek. 

Arya was hovering behind him, and Pod behind her. 

‘Inside,’ Sandor said to her.

‘But -’

‘Now.’

He knew she’d never heard him use that tone before. He heard her take a breath, and the sound of their feet as she and Pod disappeared. The two of them were left alone, a few people further off in the darker parts of the field, drinking and laughing, and the whoops of dancers inside. 

‘Bro,’ Gregor said.

‘The fuck do you think you’re doing here?’ Sandor said, his voice tight. Weary. 

‘I haven’t seen you for ten years and this is my greeting? A bit harsh.’ His lip curled, and Sandor knew that when he smiled, his mouth did the same thing, and felt sick. ‘Heard my little brother was getting married. Reckoned I’d come along and represent the family.’ He looked around. ‘Seeing as no one else fucking is.’

He could do this. Keep calm. It was his fucking wedding day. ’You weren’t invited for a reason.’ Two reasons, and he talked about the second even less than the first.

Gregor scratched his nose. ’Water under the bridge, eh? It’s been a long old time.’

‘Not long enough.’ It would never be long enough.

‘Alright, pal?’ Bronn had come out to the porch, a pint in his hand, assessing them both. Sandor always thought he could have done with Bronn in the army, way back when.

Gregor glanced down at him, unimpressed. ‘You are?’

‘Best man,’ said Bronn, breezy as fucking anything, not in the slightest bit bothered at how massive he was. ‘You?’

‘Brother,’ said Gregor. 

Bronn looked at his friend, deadpan as hell, and Sandor knew that he understood completely. Sandor had blurted out the reason for his scars early on, at the end of a pub crawl in Bristol. ‘Oh aye,’ Bronn said, lightly, and didn’t leave them to it. 

Oberyn and that big ginger bastard had drifted closer from outside. 

‘Where’s the bloody bride, then?’ Gregor said, looking around.

There was a small, delicate clearing of someone’s throat and Gregor turned a little, and the last thing that Sandor ever wanted happened. The woman he loved meeting the man he hated more than anything.

‘That would be me,’ she said, standing barefoot in the mud, clutching her elbows and staring wide-eyed up at him. ‘I’m Sansa.’

***

**Sansa**

Arya had shouted in her ear on the dancefloor something about Sandor’s brother, and Sansa hadn’t understood at all, because he didn’t have one. But of course he did, it’s just that they had agreed never to speak of him. 

At that moment, her head cleared. She followed Arya swiftly outside to find Sandor standing opposite the man who had disfigured him. 

It was frightening how similar they looked. Gregor’s hair was shaved short and he had an unfashionable goatee beard, but they had the same shape. The broad stretch of shoulder, the nose. He was two inches taller, at least. 

Gregor eyed her, a too-long up and down moment which made her feel ill all over again. ‘I was looking for someone in a white dress,’ he said. ‘Guess that says it all, eh?’ 

Sansa felt her eyes widen further.

His upper lip rose off his teeth as he looked at her again, down and up this time. ’No, I’m just joshing with you. Christ almighty, you lucky fucking bastard,’ he said, turning back to his brother. ‘How the hell did you land that?’

‘That’s my wife,’ said Sandor, in a low, dark-edged voice, and she could hear the danger in it. 

‘That’s my sister, you big fucking prick,’ said Arya, at the same time, behind her.

‘Step outside,’ Sandor said. 

‘Oh aye,’ said Gregor. ‘It’s going off, is it?’

Sansa felt a taut horror in her throat. She was aware of Edd hovering nearby, looking at his pint whilst also quietly keeping an eye on everything. 

‘Just step outside,’ said Sandor again. His voice was so low it was practically burrowing into the mud that caked her toes. 

‘Sandor,’ she said, stepping towards him. 

‘Are we having a fight?’ said Ygritte, who’d come in from the field, Robb behind her, both of them sporting mud stains. ‘It’s not a wedding without a fight.’

‘No need for fighting, sweetheart,’ said Oberyn, his hands on her shoulders. ‘It would be very one-sided and this man would only embarrass himself.’ Tormund was standing close by, watching.

‘I’m happy to keep up tradition, darling,’ said Gregor, looking her up and down in exactly the same way as he had done to Sansa. ‘Or maybe just you and me can have a wee tussle, eh?’

‘Not so sure about that mate,’ said Ygritte, shrugging off Oberyn. ‘Big stupid fuckers aren’t my type.’ She gave him a come-and-have-a-go upwards flick with both hands and hissed at him. 

Thoros was there, a loose, warm smile on his face, Lysa behind him. ‘Hey man, how’s it going?’

Gregor glanced at him, his face impassive. ‘I don’t need some peacenik cunt talking me down.’ 

Thoros put both his hands up. ‘Easy, man. We’re all friends here.’

Gregor looked at his brother again. ‘This the company you’re keeping these days? You’ve let yourself go, man.’

‘They’re better company than you’ll ever be.’

‘I’m family. Fuck this lot. You’re mine, bro.’

‘Baby, leave it,’ said Sansa, gathering herself. ‘You’re not welcome here,’ she said to Gregor. ‘You’re not part of his family.’ 

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ said Arya, who seemed to be wielding the cake knife. 

Gregor gazed down at her before giving the smallest snort. ’Your muscle’s on the wee side.’

‘She’s as tough as you’ll ever be, you bastard,’ said Sandor.

‘What’s happened to you, mate? You’ve gone bloody soft on us. Not doing the Cleganes proud.’

‘Aye, and that’s what you do, is it?’ Sandor took a step forwards, and Sansa’s heart lurched. Please don’t fight, she thought. Please don’t rise to it. ‘This is my family,’ Sandor said. ‘Not you. You haven’t been my family since I was seven and you fucking well know why. I’ll not even bother pissing on your fucking grave.’

Gregor stared at him, a long moment. He gave a sharp breath of a laugh. ’You always did have a lip. Maybe I aimed for the wrong bit of your face.’

Sandor reached for him, his arm wrenching from Sansa’s, and at the same time there was movement from Arya, and at the same time, something else happened. Gregor’s wide face went black, as if it had exploded. 

***

**Arya**

She had been ready to go for him. Stab him, though Pod was right behind her, and probably would have judo-wrestled her to the ground before she could give him a fucking Chelsea smile. 

And then stuff hit Gregor. 

Sandor stopped dead. Arya stopped dead. Everyone stopped dead.

‘What the fuck?’ said Gregor, head tilting upwards to the porch roof as another large splodge of brown landed directly on one eye. He put his fingers to his cheek. Looked disgusted. ‘You have got to be fucking kidding -’ another dollop landed on his eyebrow. He looked up, to where there was a dark shadow standing on the eaves above him. There was a weird cry and a streak of pale powder streamed down. 

Gregor’s face went white. Caked white. 

Another yell and there was a girl on him, jumping from up above them all, on his back like wings, jabbing at his eyes with the end of a peacock feather. Gregor turned, turned again, trying to hurl her off, but she held fast for a bit longer before wheeling off him and landing on the ground like a cat, still holding the feather as if it was an arrow.

Lyanna. Badass.

Gregor was cursing, raging, waving his arms about like a madman. Edd and Bronn and Mr Martell and GingerBeardStripper and Ygritte and Robb were all standing in a close circle around him. Sansa was holding onto Sandor’s arm a bit further away. 

Pod was taking the cake knife from Arya’s hand. The electric shock of his fingers, lightly touching her. 

‘You’re a bunch of fucking animals,’ Gregor said, swiping away the sheep shit from his face, and spitting flour away, violently. ‘You deserve each other.’ He staggered towards the driveway, pushing a waiter out of the way.

Bronn and Edd tailed him, a few feet behind. 

‘I don’t need a fucking chaperone,’ Gregor said, becoming a shadow under the trees.

‘Aye, well you’re getting two of them anyway,’ Bronn said, quietly. 

‘Holy fucking hell,’ said Arya, sort of to Pod, and sort of to herself. 

Sandor stood underneath the eaves, looking up. ‘Get down here.’ He helped Rickon skid down a beam of the porch and put his hand on his head. ‘Thank you, fella,’ he said. ‘You crazy wee shite.’ Leant down and kissed his hair, before leaning back up quickly, his nose wrinkling. ‘Christ on a bloody bike. Go and wash your hands.’ He turned to Lyanna. ‘And you.’

They all went back inside, and Thoros, with perfect timing, cued up Sly and the Family Stone, as Sandor, Sansa, Arya, Pod, Rickon, Lyanna and all the others walked back into the barn to the sound of ‘We Are Family’ and quite a lot of cheering.

***

**Edd**

He was sitting outside on a hay bale, whilst the music got more dancey. There was someone shrieking – probably that smallest Stark kid, who seemed to have been a reiver in a former life, or maybe his even wilder friend – and Theon was puking up in a corner whilst that lass Jane rubbed his back. Edd wasn’t paying too much heed to any of this, because Missy was sitting on his lap and kissing him.

After the Gregor drama, the mood in the barn had become jubilant and a shade more drunken. Sandor had sat down for a bit, staring into the middle of the room, Sansa leaning over him, concerned. Wifely. 

Edd had watched Missy dance again for two more minutes, finding himself in that zone before a launching, standing very still, curled thumb scratching his middle fingernail, his only tic. Except that he didn’t have five soldiers watching him, waiting for his command. 

A little click in his brain, and he’d walked over, picked up her hand and taken her outside, not daring to look at her. There in the half-light from the barn, he had kissed her, quickly, before immediately apologising. As it turned out, the apology had been rather unnecessary, as then she had taken _him_ by the hand and sat him down on this chair underneath an awning, two peacocks strutting out of the way.

She tasted of elderflower cordial. Her lips had the tiniest bit of stickiness to them. He was feeling light-headed.

Missy pulled away, looking like she’d just woken up. ‘You’re a fine kisser,’ she said, and he finally realised that _fine_ didn’t just mean fine, ok, alright, fair-to-middling.

‘It helps that I’m kissing someone like you,’ he said. Not someone like her. _Her_. 

The music suddenly stopped, and there were moaning shouts and whistles from inside the barn. Things seemed to be winding up.

‘Where are you staying, Edd?’ she said, the words as light as bloody butterflies. 

‘A BnB,’ he said, alarmingly raspy, before clearing his throat. ‘Few miles away.’

She gazed towards the glow of the barn entrance for a few moments before leaning very close to his ear and speaking very quietly. ‘Do you think you might have room for one more in there?’

‘Aye. I reckon I can have,’ he said, telling his heart to start beating again.

***

**Sandor**

‘Baby.’ 

They were lying on their backs on top of the bed in their wedding suite room, fully-clothed. Sandor was staring up at the ceiling. The smooth ceiling. Pale. Unscarred.

‘Are you ok?’ She’d put her feet in the bath, spent ages rubbing the mud off, and now she was sliding a soft-skinned foot on the skin of his knee above his sock. ‘Baby,’ she said again. She sounded exhausted, heavy with wine and the stress of the day. 

He took a long breath in and tried to send thoughts of Gregor out with it. His brother shouldn’t be in his head. In this room. He didn’t get to do that. ‘Aye,’ he said, with rather a lot of effort. ‘I’m ok.’

Sansa turned to him properly, a hand on his chest. ‘He’s nothing like you,’ she said.

‘Good.’ He never wanted to see him again. Ever. When he’d come back from Iraq, Gregor had made jokes about sand-sluts and tea towels and he’d wanted to kill him. Next time, he would tear both of his fucking eyes out. 

Sansa rolled back off him, staring at the ceiling too. ‘We’re married,’ she said, vaguely and as if she’d just remembered.

Something shifted in Sandor. He was the one who’d been sure, steady, until an hour ago. Who’d steered her through this whole mad day. He turned to her now, a mirror image of what she’d just done, an arm pulling her close to him. ‘That ok with you?’

There was a little pause. He could still hear Thoros playing records, even though almost everyone had gone to bed. Doubtless Ygritte would still be raving away - if she hadn’t dragged Robb off into a bush again - and Bronn, and Robin. 

‘Yes,’ Sansa said, quiet. 

‘Sure?’ Please say it again, he thought, needing it now more than ever. 

‘Yes,’ she said, more definitely. ‘Yes it is.’

He put his nose in her hair and drew his hand up over her arm, under the floaty sleeve of her dress. 

She shivered. ‘Tickles.’

Christ, I love you, he thought, and felt thoughts of Gregor disappearing out into the field, further. ’Well, you know there’s one thing that should happen on a wedding night,’ he said, having just remembered how he’d seen her hours ago, panicking in her room, vomit on her proper dress. In that underwear.

‘Mmm-hmm?’ she said, sounding as if she’d fall asleep any second. 

He levered himself up above her with one elbow, and began kissing her neck. He had duties to perform. Husbandly duties. 

‘Bronn was right, you know,’ she said, sleepily. Hand in his hair. 

‘About what?’ Sandor knelt over her, unbuckling the sporran with one hand. 

‘You being the best-hung Scotsman ever,’ she said, putting her hands on the waistband of his kilt. 

‘Know that for a fact, do you?’ He tossed the sporran away.

‘No. But I still know it’s true.’

‘Aye, well there’s time for that in a bit,’ he said, pulling her upwards on the bed and gathering all the thin folds of her dress in his fist. Moving it up to her stomach. Sheer silk pants, just a shade darker than her skin, not much. He slid a finger underneath the edge.

‘Will you keep it on?’ she said. Or murmured, the words blurring together. 

‘Aye,’ he said, knowing exactly what she meant, thinking about fucking her with his kilt still round his waist, and making himself hold off, because if she deserved anything after today, it was this, first.

She murmured something else unintelligible as he took her pants off and put his mouth where he loved to put it, and his tongue even deeper. 

Sansa was quieter than she’d ever been before. Dead quiet. Maybe still thinking about this whole thing they’d done. Wedding. Married. Maybe still freaking out. He lifted his head, glanced up at her.

She was fast asleep.

***

**Edd**

The ride in the taxi had been almost silent, Edd staring out of the window at the dark hedgerows as the car weaved along single-track roads, glancing over to find Missy looking back with a small, searching smile.

He’d felt like a bloody cat burglar, creeping into the country house with her, hoping to god that the pinched-faced landlady wouldn’t think that he was sneaking a prostitute in, because why the hell else would someone like this girl be here? 

And yet now she was right here, sitting on the bed in the small, over-floral room. His bed had been remade, the sheets tucked tight, the pillows plumped. Her coat was on her knees, her hands folded slightly formally on her lap as she watched Edd fiddle about like an idiot. He shut the curtains. Turned down the radiator – it was on full blast and he didn’t need any more help in feeling flushed. Eyed the tray of teabags and shortbread biscuits. He swallowed. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ 

She twisted to look at him, her eyes bright and careful. ‘I’m good for tea, thanks.’ Her voice was so bloody soft. Like towelling.

It was ludicrous that she was here. He hardly wanted to breathe.

Radio. He would put the radio on. He pressed a button, and Radio 4 came on, a man reading something about geology. Edd turned it off again.

Missy was still watching him. ‘You’re not going to sleep in the chair this time, are you?’ The way she said everything was both beautifully sweet and kneecap-shatteringly sexy.

‘Not if you don’t want me to,’ he said.

‘I don’t want you to.’ A small smile.

No more stalling. Edd sat down next to her, the bed giving slightly underneath him. Her eyes were two little coins of blood pudding. Kiss her. All he had to do was kiss her again and it would be alright. He leaned towards her. Did just that. 

It was quiet here. Quieter than the barracks. Quieter than Afghanistan, that was for sure, apart from up in the mountains that one time where he saw more stars than he’d ever seen before. Quieter than home even, because there weren’t sheep stuttering incessantly outside. Quiet enough to hear every tiny shift in her breath, and their mouths, meeting more than once.

He liked how she let her lip be tugged by him, let it linger after he came away. Her hand, gently owning his thigh.

He pulled back. ‘I’m – I’m not a hero, you know.’ The way she kept looking at him, like he’d saved tons of lives and single-handedly liberated Middle Eastern countries, which was entirely the opposite of true. The idea that he was some sort of Captain America in uniform was best put to bed sooner rather than later.

The deep little lines appeared between her eyebrows. You could probably hide things in there. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Swear down.’ They smoothed away. ‘It’s just your job.’

Something in him loosened, just a bit more. He kissed her again, found her tongue again, tasted all that elderflower again. Missy was shifting about, and he didn’t realise what she was doing until her elbows came up and her dress came over her head.

People often thought that Edd was ill. His skin was generally the colour of uncooked chicken and in Afghanistan, he just burnt and peeled. Missy’s skin glowed, as if she was gently lit from within. Her bra was dark purple, laced. The curves of her there almost as heavy as the lump in his throat. He put his mouth to the front of her shoulder and she shivered, before putting her fingers to his collar.

A smile as she loosened his tie, with difficulty, and more concentration as she unbuttoned his collar. Missy moved, kneeling in front of him to keep undoing his shirt, and he just watched her, with a sort of wonder and dread. He wasn’t all that. Fit enough – he had to be – and wiry, he supposed. But he was hardly bloody Daniel Craig or Justin Bieber or whoever she would probably much prefer to be sitting in front of her. He didn’t have a single tattoo. Didn’t they like tattoos now?

She had the scratchy frown-lines again, sitting back and watching him, there in her bra and pants. Looked concerned. Nursely. Edd quickly tried to dismiss those fantasies. He was in enough trouble as it was. ‘What are you worried about?’ she said.

His calm poker face obviously needed working on. ‘It’s been a while,’ he said. She kept making him talk, too, just by looking at him with those liquidy eyes. You could get drunk on them. ‘No time for girls in the army – I mean, there are girls in the army, but –’ he wasn’t doing very well. ‘No time for girlfriends. I’m worried – that it’ll be over in a flash.’ He gave her the smallest, most wry look.

Missy gazed at him, and Edd waited for her to ask for the cab number, high-tail it away from him. She stood up. He looked at the plum-coloured birthmark on her hip. Christ. She knocked spots off every single other woman he’d ever seen in their underwear. You could put her in a whole sub-unit of nearly-naked women for inspection and not find a single fault. He began to reach for his phone in his pocket.

‘Then you’ll have to make me come first,’ she said and he stopped moving. ‘And then it doesn’t matter.’ Another waiting, watchful smile.

Those words were enough to make his heart throw a punch at his own ribs. A mission, and one he had to complete, no matter how much paperwork afterwards. There probably wouldn’t be paperwork afterwards. ‘Alright, then,’ he said.

***

**Arya**

She and Pod were lying on their backs in the field on a groundsheet and a blanket. Around them, there were drunken laughs and snuffles as the few campers tried to get out of their clothes and into their sleeping bags, and slowly, the lights went off in the main buildings. 

Her body was still in its strange, suspended state. He had stayed, all evening. He’d said that he was in love with someone else, and she knew that he meant her. He was still in love with her. 

They weren’t touching. She hardly dared speak, because any of her words be shit ones and she would spoil whatever this was, this terrifying, helium-light air between them.

Above them, dark, inky clouds had sprayed themselves in front of the stars.

‘What did Tyene say?’ she said finally, turning her head.

Pod was still staring upwards. ‘She tried to kickbox me.’ He turned his head, his voice light. ‘In the face.’ 

‘Wow.’

‘I moved quickly.’

Arya stared upwards again. ‘I won’t ever do it again,’ she said. ‘I’d sooner kill myself.’

‘I don’t want you to kill yourself.’

She shivered.

‘Arya.’

Above them, the cloud was moving, and hard, bright stars were like tiny scrunched sweet-wrappers. 

‘I forgive you,’ he said.

The warmth of his skin as his hand folded over hers. Fingers slowly slotting against each other.

They lay on their backs in the cool April night-air. Stars. If she looked carefully enough, she swore she could see new constellations. Her own name up there. 

And his.

***

**Edd**

Edd’s jaw had gone numb. He’d carefully turned her round, while she was still standing up, and put his mouth on her that way, and now Missy was lying on her back on the bed and he had no idea whether he was doing ok, because she had gone a little quiet.

He was probably disastrous. He should have genned up a bit, except that he absolutely had not seen this coming. Or could see her coming, frankly, at the moment. 

‘Talk to me,’ he said, rather rashly. 

Missy went rather still. ‘Um. Ok. Um. I want your dick really badly.’

‘No. I didn’t mean that.’ Though that was perfectly fine, if he was honest. ‘I mean -’ he couldn’t believe he was saying this, but everything had pulled him along so far. ‘In one of your languages.’

‘Yeah?’ Her voice came to him like a drifting cloud.

‘Yeah.’

She lay back and stared at the ceiling. And started murmuring something in a language he didn’t really recognise. Everything that came out of her mouth was so soft it was hard to tell.

Ok. Right. Crack on. She was soft all over, really, her words, and – down here. He would do this as long as it bloody took, because she’d basically ordered him to, in her soft way. As he shifted, his tongue moving a little higher, her words changed, and went slightly higher as well. Alright. That must be better. 

He could hear her, just about, as her thighs were getting nearer and nearer to his head, and her hands kept coming down near his ears, begin to say the same word a few times. Two words, perhaps. _Barlay. Barlay lotfan._

Her hands came down on his head. Her thighs closer. He was surrounded by her.

‘Barlay,’ she said again. ‘Lotfan.’

He tried to summon the strength, because it was late and he was thirty-five and a bit bloody knackered. A last bout of energy. Faster. 

And then Missy started saying lots of words and he recognized one or two of them. _Oui. Si. Shukran. Per favore._

She stopped, suddenly, as if someone had put a cork on her, as if someone had pressed pause. And shuddered, sighed, letting him go. His whole head felt like it had been in an oven. A very wet oven. 

He felt like a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****  
> PICSET  
>   
>   
>  **  
> **  
> BRITISH NOTES AND TING:  
>  Brick shithouse = from the saying ‘built like a brick shithouse’, i.e. rather large
> 
> Blood pudding = an delicacy as part of a full English breakfast. Well, a delicacy for some, as it’s basically fried blood. It’s yum! More usually called black pudding. People built like brick shithouses probably eat loads of it. 
> 
> Swear down = I swear, honest, it’s true, as in ‘Blood pudding tastes savage, swear down, you’ll be built like a brick shithouse if you eat that every day.’
> 
>  _Baleh lotfan_ = ‘yes please’ in Persian. 
> 
> _Shukran_ = ‘please’ in Arabic.


	5. Lit

**Sandor**

He woke up to find her staring at him, hands folded underneath her head. Hair spread out over the pillow, a long gingerbread streak of it. His wife. 

Sandor turned to her.

‘I fell asleep,’ she said.

‘Aye. You did, that.’

A small, despairing frown, the sort she would usually give in front of University Challenge, before hitting him if he got the answer right before her. ’Everything went wrong.’

He pulled her closer, so that her head was on his chest, where he liked it best. Picked up some of her hair and let it sift over his fingers. ‘Tell me what went wrong.’

‘I was sick on my dress.’

‘And Meera got you another one and you still looked a thousand times bloody better than anyone.’

‘Bran wasn't there.’

‘You’ll see him again. And anyway, you had plenty of brothers and cousins and whatnot.’

‘They forgot the cake order.’

‘And Pod fed everyone and no one knew the difference. Probably tasted better anyway.’ He wondered again how the boy and Arya were. It looked to be getting somewhere again, between them. He was glad. 

‘It rained.’

‘Thoros said that rain was good luck.’ The guy was stoned on bloody rosemary joints, but what the fuck, he’d take it. 

She turned suddenly, her chin jabbing into his chest. ‘Gregor.’ Her eyes widened as if she’d only just remembered the one thing that had actually caused him bother yesterday. ‘Sandor. I can’t believe that was your brother. I’m so sorry.’ She touched his cheek, lightly, which she hardly ever did, because she knew how much he hated it being focused on. 

He let her. Tried not to let his sigh sound like the whole farmhouse was falling apart. ’Aye, well. We won’t be seeing him again.’ Sandor kept picturing the back of him, disappearing down the drive, hoping that it was true. 

She moved her hand to his belly, fingers in the hair of his stomach, a gentle, looping scratch like ice skates. ‘You’re right, you know. What you said. To him.’

‘What did I say?’ He knew full well.

‘That you had a new family.’ Sansa put her head on his chest again, heavy as anything. Full of great big brain. ’I mean, you married me, but it’s true. You’re ours now.’ She lifted it up again and blinked at him, her gaze slow and steady. ‘If you want to be.’

He thought of all them. The daft elder brother, the intellectual younger one, the wild-as-fuck youngest. The sister, who he couldn’t help caring for, as much as she could be a brattish little pipsqueak. But she was trying hard enough to be better. He could think of her as his little sister, if she wanted him to. He’d try. The parents, both of them warm and honest, and likely to give him hell on earth if he ever set a foot wrong. The away-with-the-fairies cousin, and his much madder mum. And all the friends that came with them.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll take them.’

‘Also,’ she said, and held one eye shut at him. 

‘Also what.’

‘I want to take your name, but I want to keep mine too.’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Sansa Stark-Clegane,’ she said into the middle of the room, before looking at him, carefully. ‘Sandor Stark-Clegane.’

One step further away from his brother. ‘Alright, then,’ he said. Aye, he was a modern man. Take that, fucking Thoros. 

She smiled. 

Christ on a fucking cracker. The way her cheeks lifted, and her eyes, like the sun had been lobbed at them. His fucking wife. ‘Well, I don’t care about the rain and the cake and the dress and all that shite,’ he said. ‘But there’s one thing we’re going to set right.’ He took hold of her leg and tipped her onto her back, nudging her thigh outwards with his knee as he sat up. ‘Seeing as someone feel asleep on me last night.’ His hand underneath her bottom.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ she said.

‘Is that what’s going to happen now? You’re going to start pretending to be asleep or getting headaches all the time?’

‘No,’ said Sansa. ‘Our married sex life is going to be better than our unmarried sex life.’ Spoken with the utter bloody confidence with which she said everything. With which she’d told him to go home with her, go out with her, move in with her, marry her. 

‘I’m going to hold you to that,’ he said, holding a thigh in each hand, wishing he was still wearing his kilt. 

‘Yay,’ said Sansa, and down he went.

‘Sandor,’ she said, a little while later.

‘Aye,’ said Sandor, except it came out as a mumble, given where his head still was.

She had gone completely still around him. ‘What’s that noise?’

***

**Arya**

Singing. A song going past her ear, travelling, but thin-sounding, like a fly was doing karaoke. The song sounded familiar.

Another song mixed up in it.

Jojen’s face, and Bran’s, looking over her. ‘Good morning,’ Jojen said.

A sheep, baa-ing. The Beatles.

Arya sat up. ‘What the absolute fuck?’

Her hand was still on Pod’s chest, where she had lain on him all night under a blanket in the field. Her bones had all welded together in the cold. Her nose was numb. A sheep wandered past her, wearing some sort of black Velcro strip around its middle, and a small dictaphone, from which ‘All You Need Is Love’ was blaring out, tinnily. The sheep had a love-heart sprayed on its side.

She looked around. All over the field, twenty sheep were wandering, each carrying their own dictaphone-belt, each sprayed with a hot-pink heart. Arya could hear different songs coming from each one, all mixed in together. I Feel Love. I Will Always Love You. When A Man Loves A Woman.

‘Meant to do this yesterday,’ said Jojen, stretching. Bran was leaning on his crutch, smiling at his sister.

Pod shifted and Arya looked down at him. They hadn’t kissed yet, but she knew that they would.

He blinked and gazed at her with one eye shut. A cold, sleepy, red-cheeked smile. 

***

**Edd**

Edd had been awake for an hour, watching a tiny gnat fly around the room and making sure it didn’t land on Missy’s nose, though it kept creeping closer. She was lying very still, holding her wrist as if it was broken, and had that little frown between her eyes even in sleep. 

After all her pleases and yeses last night, she had ordered him, in her gentle primary school teacher voice, to take his pants off, and had gathered him into her. She’d been so calm, so sure, and yet he’d still had to work hard to focus, not to let all the worst images come into his head, the ones that always did, from Iraq, from Afghanistan. To focus on her. In her.

The gnat zoomed in again. He waved his hand in front of her face, carefully, and she blinked awake. 

The light, floral curtains floated a bit as the breeze came in. There was the smell of frying bacon.

‘Good morning, Edd,’ she said, as light as that breeze and those curtains. It was strange how she said his name so much. Both formal and familiar.

‘Morning,’ he said, his voice far scratchier than he'd planned. 

She lay in the same position, facing him, one of her legs uncurling a little, a slow, lazy movement.

‘What were you saying to me last night?’ he said. ‘I don’t even know what language it was.’

‘Farsi,’ she said. ‘I’ve been doing more of it this year.’ She looked a little shy. ‘But they don’t teach us sexy words. I was doing my best, but I was mostly talking about trade agreements and potatoes. Classy.’

And I still made you come, Edd dared to think, grandiosely.

There was a tiny, transistor-radio sound. Missy rolled quickly onto her back and clamped her hand on her stomach. ‘Oh my days,’ she said. ‘Boyed.’

‘Come again?’ he said.

‘What?’ She looked at him. ‘Oh. Boyed. It means, like, oh, I‘m embarrassed.’ 

He smiled at her. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying half the time.’

‘That’s not true.’ She looked a bit worried.

‘No. It’s just -’ you’re however many years younger than me, he thought, and therefore from a different planet. ‘You’ve a lot of different words.’

The little curling smile came up on one side of her mouth. ‘Say ‘oh my days.’’

‘It won’t sound quite the same coming from me.’

‘Go on.’

He looked at the stippled ceiling. Looked back at her. ‘Oh my days.’

She giggled. ‘That is lit.’ Another giggle. ‘I mean good. Funny.’ She put her hand over her mouth as he shook his head at her. ‘I bet you have loads of slang I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Where you’re from.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Go on,’ she said, rolling back over so that her side was against his, one arm slinking over his stomach. ‘Give me some Lancashire words. I want to learn some.’

For some reason, he thought of his mam, bringing great wide plates of mashed potato over to the table. His grandma even, with her constant steaming mug of tea. ‘You great barmpot,’ he said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means you’re a bit silly.’

‘Am I bit silly?’ she said, looking pleased and outraged at the same time. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t be nesh.’

‘Nesh?’

‘Soft,’ he said, thinking, you’re the softest thing I’ve ever had in my arms. ‘It means don’t be soft. Or daft.’ 

Another growly noise from under the duvet. ‘Oh, man,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘I’m starving.’ A cheekily coy grin as she shifted her face to him.

‘Time for some scran, then,’ he said and she gazed at him with her little frown. ‘Food,’ he said. ‘In my neck of the woods.’ He smiled at her, and tried not to worry about taking a beautiful girl down to breakfast who hadn’t been there when he’d checked in, and tried not to worry about how this would be left, the two of them.

Her stomach grumbled a third time, and she drew her legs up and giggled. He put his arm under her neck.

It was fine. It was as Sandor had said. It didn’t have to be forever, he told himself, trying to ignore the fact that he was half in love with her already.

***

**Sansa**

Everyone had come outside, dressed in the farm’s complimentary dressing gowns, hungoverly squinting into the field. The farm’s owners were looking none too pleased. 

One sheep was currently defecating whilst The Power of Love blared from its neck. Another one was baa-ing along to Nat King Cole. Bran was explaining to Cat and Ned that they’d gone to Berlin to collect twenty free dictaphones from an artist friend of Jojen’s as well as have a holiday, whilst Ned gazed at them all with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Sansa and Sandor stood at the edge of the field. Sandor had a slight sheen on his lip and his hair was all over the place. So was Sansa’s.

They were married. She was married to him, and even though it had not been the wedding she had imagined, it was done and now there was this new, cold morning, with the light laid on the field like a thick quilt, and everything felt new. 

‘You lot are fucking insane, you know that?’ he said.

She leaned into him. His side was so warm. ‘Is that why you love us?’ 

In the field, Ygritte was belting out Elton John, her arms wide, still drunk, and Robin was trying to harmonise with her, unsuccessfully. Robb was doubled over laughing at both of them. Rickon was chasing a sheep up at the far end of the field. Edmure was jigging his squalling baby up and down. Arya was sitting between Pod’s legs, her back against his chest with a blanket wrapped around both of them, and Jojen was smoking, his sunglasses rather unnecessarily on, surveying his work.

‘Aye,’ Sandor said, putting his arm round her. ‘I suppose it is.’

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, y'all! I've had such a ball writing this series, it has given me loads of confidence and inspiration for more original stuff, wooo! Plus I learnt how to do picsets, so there's that.
> 
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